Home On The Range
by MeandPizzatheOTP
Summary: That District 10 rat was the first girl ever to play Cato like a fool. Now, he was out for revenge. Oh yes, he would kill her in the arena - but not before making her fall in love with him. Then, and only then, he assured himself, he could exterminate her like the vermin she was.


**Home On The Range**

_Disclaimer: I own nothing.__Hey, 3 Hunger Games fanfictions in a few weeks ... God I'm so sad. Review please lovelies!_

**Sienna's POV**

The first mistake I made was letting my brother be so damn stupid.

I grew up in the small, quiet outskirts of my District. The long stretch of desert like terrain wraps around District 10 in a scorching embrace, and it caresses the edges of our farm gingerly, as we live right on the edge of our civilisation. I live with my brother, and my careless but loving Aunt Clara, as my mother had died during labour when giving birth to Riley.

I knew my baby brother has always been pained with guilt at the fact that the beginning of her existence was the end of hers. We both know that it's the lack of qualified doctors in the area that sealed mothers fate, but it's hard to console him when even our yellow-bellied father took off after mothers death. With Aunt Clara not being much help, my brother and I have a very close relationship, which is exactly why I have to volunteer in the games tomorrow.

"Don't you do it, Sienna," My brother pleaded with me, sitting himself on the hay bale next to where I stood. "This is my mess, and I don't want to get you involved."

I don't even glance at Riley as I throw slop into the trough for our pigs. Instead I grip the bottle of whiskey in the back pocket of my shorts like it is a lifeline, afraid that he might take it away from me like he did last time. I'd already decided that after my chores I was going to gulp down the liquid stolen from my Aunts cellar - something I would be sure to regret in the morning - hopefully having a swell night before the morning to come. "Be quiet, baby brother."

I watch in satisfaction as the pigs squeal in delight, bringing dust up into the air as they run. They jostle for position at the trough, until Boris, a rather ugly young boar with half an ear missing, is quickly crowned victorious. He devours his meal quickly and trots away satisfied, leaving the rest of the pigs with the scraps he'd left. I chuckle. Boris had always been my favourite.

The 14 year old boy starts again. "I've chosen to volunteer." He pauses when he hears me sigh. "You shouldn't be caught up in this."

I ignore him, looking up to the clear, orange painted sky, the hot breeze caressing my face. The dead amber blades of grass that surround the place are lit up by the evening light. I let the pinkish glow of the sunset consume my thoughts, pushing away my brothers concerns. Instead I let my mind wander to the weather.  
The dust storms had settled a few days ago, but there is no telling when they might come back to this wasteland. "The rain ain't falling, Riley. When do you think it'll fall again?" I say whimsically.  
Riley doesn't answer.

The grounds around our farm are almost barren, but I had really grown fond of the tree that had grown tall and proud, just a few yards away from the pigs pen. I make my way over to the Desert Willow, relishing in the crunch of the grass beneath my feet, before sitting under it with a slight thud. I rest my head on the trees bark.

It was unusually tranquil for a scorching September evening. I remember a few years ago, me and Riley would run all the way straight to the oasis on days like this after my chores on the ranch were done, and dive straight in. However, District 10 had seen better days back then. The Oasis had dried up a while ago now.

It seems as if Riley has followed me over, because I hear him squawking again. "Now damn, Sienna, you listen to me." I huff, uprooting small blades of dried out grass with my fingers. "I've chosen to volunteer. It doesn't mean you should to." I shake my head, turning to look at my brother. Despite his pestering, it's hard to get angry at him - even though it is his fault that we were in this mess - he has our mothers chocolate eyes. In fact, he's the spitting image of mother, with curly brown locks, and dimples just like hers. Sometimes, it was hard to look at him. It was also just as hard to look away. Again he persisted, sounding like those Squawker Mutts - a mutated wildcat with the skill of some kind of extinct colourful bird to repeat things it'd heard - that plagued our ranch a few years back. "It's my choice, you don't have to make it with me!"

I take the whiskey to my lips and slurp it like a thirsty man would water, savouring the bitter taste, and the warmth that spread in my throat. I take a deep breath before taking another swig. "You don't have a choice. You either volunteer this year, or they execute you. Where's the choice in that?" I snap harshly, and he winces at the sound. My eyes soften. "Hey now. I'm not snapping out of meanness." The boy takes a seat next to me on the itchy floor of grass. "14 is too young to be going into the games alone."

The freckles that lightly dust my brothers nose scrunch up as he made a face. I cut him off before he could speak again. "And don't you go telling me about the life I could lead out here, because we both know that you are all I have."

It was true. I never got on with the other kids - I had always preferred to keep to myself - my brother was social enough for the two of us. Without him, all I'd have was Aunt Clara, and my ugly pig Boris. What kind of life was that?

I can tell Riley has admitted defeat. He knew I wouldn't back down. "Well," Riley mutters bitterly, "I should have thought about that before I stole off of that Peace Keeper."

I don't say anything. Riley shouldn't have stole off a Peace Keeper, and certainly not off Rex Jefferson, that's for sure. However, what were a few bags of fodder to feed our animals to a man like Rex Jefferson, anyway?

Me and my brother work the ranch with my Aunt Clara, and we have done since I can remember. Our farm isn't much; about 10 pigs, a hand full of cows, 4 chickens and a horse, along with a single wheat field. No, not much at all - we have no assistance of machines, and have to do everything by hand - but, we do well enough. Our farm isn't property of the Capitols yet, as it was a gift to my father before he died, so we don't have to give all of our produce away. Not that we have much produce to give away - this is District 10's 4th consecutive year in draught, and our farms are failing. Hence why my little brother was stupid enough to try to steal fodder from a Peace Keepers truck - our animals were starving.

If it were any other district, Riley would be let off with a few lashings with a whip - not District 10. Only district 12 is worse off, I've been told by old Bennett. Our terrain is desolate, our conditions are scorching, we don't have enough resources to sustain ourselves, and our Peace Keepers are only second to the Devil himself - President Snow. Then again, Aunt Clara told me to never listen to the former Victor. Bennett Leys-Bailey had won the 41st Hunger Games, God knows how, and it has really taken it's toll on him. I was only formally introduced to him about 4 months ago, when I decided I'd need to train for a while if I was going to keep my brother safe in the games, but the crazy hermit has slowly became one of my few close allies. I just hope it'll be enough.

"So, Riley," I breathe out, starting conversation again. "Let's go over how you'll present yourself when you volunteer..."

* * *

Reaping Day has arrived once again.

The sun beats down harshly on my skin, and the unrelenting waves of heat only add to the discomfort of today. Everyone is tired, irritable, and god damn fed up of being herded like the livestock we own. The sweat makes our clothes stick uncomfortably to our skin, and I am glad I decided to wear my white summers dress on this occasion. It's the best I own - correction, the_ only_ one I own. We don't have the luxury of pretty, frilly things like dresses here.

I rub my throbbing finger in attempt to soothe it from the violation of the pinprick, walking sulkily to the roped area marked '17'.

Inside the ropes feel even more daunting than last year, especially now my fate is sealed. It is almost claustrophobic, everyone touching shoulder to shoulder, the smell of sweat, fear and barren land in the dry air. There is a low, solemn murmur in the crowd, with an occasional glance in my direction from the people around me, and I kick the earth underneath me uncomfortably, bringing up a small amount of dust, suddenly finding the ground very interesting.

I try to steady myself, I count to 10 and inhale deeply, anything to keep the bile in my throat down. I try to tune everyone out, thinking of nothing but my brother. _Pull yourself together. He needs you._

It is another 5 minutes before I collect my thoughts. Finally I make a decision, and I jostle my way to the front of our area, ready. Everyone willingly parts for me, half in respect, and and the other half because no one really wants to be the closest to the stage and violated by our late district escorts loud clothing choices when she arrives. I wonder if our districts escort is considered beautiful in the capitol. Even if she is, beautiful definitely isn't the word we'd use to describe her here.

Speaking of the devil, there she is now, teetering out of the Justice Building in leather brown high heels, and attire to match. On her head there is a vulgar cowgirl hat, lilac synthetic hair spilling out of it. I guess she is going to be routing for our district this year - it doesn't make her appear any less hideous.

"Hello, hello, hello!" Elizabeta Button beams, her voice as fake as her long, pastel lilac wig. "And welcome to the 74th annual Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favour!"

I tune out when we are shown a short film, 'a gift straight from the capitol' as Elizabeta puts it cheerily. I feel truly uncomfortable watching the film - it's always the same film every year, and the message is clear - 'this is what you get for questioning us'. I can't help but wonder if the Capitol Citizens actually think it is noble of President Snow to send 24 children to the slaughter every year, for a rebellion that barely took off about 3 quarters of a century ago.

When the film finally ends, I let out an audible sigh of relief with the rest of our district. However, I know the worst part of the games had yet to come. I haven't allowed myself the luxury of looking over at my doe-eyed brother so far, because I know he doesn't want me to do this. He's been blaming himself ever since he stole fodder for our livestock from one of the peacekeepers a few months ago. But now, I let myself, and his eyes lock with mine. He shakes his head at me, a frown etching his features, and I give him a small smile. I'm not letting him go into this games alone, and he knows it.

"I think we should get to naming the tributes, don't you folks?" A shrill giggle follows the moronic question. This woman is really beginning to get on my nerves, and I can tell from the slight falter in Elizabeta's expression that she can feel the animosity for her oozing from the audience. Still, she continues like there is nothing wrong.

She shuffles to the big, gleaming glass bowl, before flashing a smile at the audience. "This always is one of my favourite bits."  
_I hate her with every fibre of my being._

Elizabeta sure makes a meal of choosing a name, dipping her fingers into the glass ball daintily, before swirling them around. It takes a full minute before she even thinks about choosing a name. I wondered if she knew the full extent of her power - she held everyone's lives in that delicate glass ball. Every other year, that is. This year, there will be two volunteers for District 10.

And then, between finely manicured fingertips, she pulls out a name. Two words on a piece of paper. Nothing special by itself, but right now, those two words mean everything. She calls them out in a booming voice, as if announcing a winner of a beauty pageant.

"And the lovely lady tribute is .." The crowd is silent. No one moves a muscle, breathing hitched. They all know that their children aren't going into the arena this year, so I'd like to think that they are worried for me and my brother. It seems as if even the surrounding livestock have gone silent for the announcement. My toe is tapping even more impatiently, wanting this to just be over and done with. I am going to die, can they not hurry it up already?

In all the previous years, I truly hated this part. Watching as someones life was taken away in a moment , seeing the colour drain from their face as they realised their fate - it just made me feel sick. And never have I felt so sick at hearing a tributes name being spoken in the vile, sickly sweet capitol accent that belonged to Elizabeta Button, because I know that no matter who's name is called out, it's me who's fate is sealed.

"Mabel Hannaford!" I know her. She's about a year younger than my brother, and she looks it, too. Even though she knows she's not going in this year, the colour still drains from her face. I don't know why, I think bitterly. I'm the female tribute for District 10 in the 74th Hunger Games this year. I know it, the Game Makers know it, this whole God damn District knows it - it's inevitable this year, that I, Sienna Umber, will be volunteering at this reaping, because I'm desperate to bring my brother home.

I take a deep breath. It's time to start the show.

I lunge forward, a grin on my face that completely betrays how I feel. "I volunteer!"

My face is up on that big screen in an instant, and I'm relieved to see that I look confident. In fact, on that screen, I look strong, I look fierce - I have the face of a Career. Inside, however, I want to scream, I want to cry - I want to drag Elizabeta Button around that damn stage by her fake lilac hair.

All the girls in the group we've been herded into - much like cattle, may I add - turn their heads towards me, with looks of shock on their faces, as if they never expected me to actually go through with this. Then they look relieved. Better me than them, they must be thinking.

My nails bite into the palm of my hand, making them feel raw. I shove through the crowd when they don't part for me at first, probably still in shock. Then they part, and I make my way through, my head held high. Climbing up the stairs carefully as to avoid tripping, I stare down our escort, and watch as she shifts almost uncomfortably in her ridiculous brown coloured stilettos, making her matching assemble making a slight noise as the cow print ruffles rub against each other. She regains her composure quickly, before chirping "My my, what a pretty volunteer for District 10! What's your name, sweetie?"

I forcefully take her hand, squeezing much harder than necessary, and smile. "My names Sienna Umber."

I see my brother in the crowd. His curly brown tresses are sticking to his forehead due to the heat, and his chocolate orbs are sad. The teary-eyed boy is staring up at me, distraught. I cock an eyebrow at him, mentally screaming at him to cut it out. It's his turn next.

Elizabeta Button makes her way to the male tributes ball, picking out another name, faster this time, it seems. The Capitol woman doesn't even get out a name, because my brother is practically beating his way through his designated area, up to the stage. "I volunteer!" He smiles firmly, and any trace of sadness is gone now. Just like we practised.

He gets onto the stage and stands next to me. Our escort is smiling at him in a way that I don't like. She's looking at my 14 year old brother like a meal, even though I'm glaring at her with all I've got. "Goody, Goody, Goody! Another volunteer! And a handsome young man at that ..." She trails off, openly leering at him. He looks her in the eye, locking hands with me. Elizabeta grins wider. "And I bet my buttons that is your -"

"Sister, Miss Button." I cut her off in my District 10 twang, standing in front of him protectively. "I'm his sister."

She lets out a shrill giggle. "How delightful!" She diverts her attention back to him. "What's your name?"

It was his turn to speak. He plays up his Southern Drawl as he shakes her hand. "It's Riley, ma'am." I take note to praise him later.

She makes the two of us shake hands, and as I look my brother in the face, I see it. I see his fear.

I don't pay attention to any more of this horrible ceremony, making an effort to look directly into the camera before trying to search out Aunt Clara. She's not there. Figures. We never told her that we were going to volunteer, and our names were only in that bowl a handful of times. I decide it's better this way.  
I turn my eyes to Rex Jefferson, the man who put my brother in this position. I don't even tear my gaze off of his ageing, smarmy face as Elizabeta Button ushered me and the district partner I hadn't even bothered to look at into the Justice Hall.  
I sighed shakily as the wooden doors closed behind me with a deafening boom, only one thought in my mind.

_I won't let him die._

* * *

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**MeandPizzatheOTP**


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